It’s kind of a love-hate relationship at this point.
I’m not talking about the skin on my body, I am fine with it for the most part. What I am obsessed with is the skin on my face.
Years ago I purchased this mirror that cost 75 friggin’ dollars (yeah you read that right — 75.00 for a face mirror) because it magnified my face something along the lines of staring at a 50-inch pizza in a 5-inch round pan.
I can see everything.
This may not have been the best $75.00 I’ve ever spent…
A mirror this size shows shit your doctor can’t find on a good day.
It just shows you all the imperfections on your face that you don’t really need to know about — ever.
A flea couldn’t see what I see on my face.
My facial skin is this strange cocktail of dry, oily, scaly, puffy, red, blotchy exoskeleton that I have been obsessed with fixing for as long as I can remember.
God forbid I actually give up gluten completely.
But I keep telling myself that my skin can’t be this way because of gluten — I rarely eat bread (maybe once a month) and I can’t imagine a world without Italian food. It’s not that I even ever have pasta all that much either (maybe once every 6 weeks) but I do not read labels for gluten, so gluten is probably sneaking into my digestive track like some heat-seeking sperm looking for a baby to create.
So instead of label-checking, I work on my face.
This month I’d like to call my latest skin-cure obsession, “Italian-salad face.”
It’s this twice daily ritual of spreading diluted apple cider vinegar over my face with a cotton ball. My face then stings for the next 5 minutes like I’ve poured rubbing-alcohol on an open blister.
I tell myself that the pain means it has to be working.
When my skin becomes too dry from the acids, I follow up with another ritual of smoothing pure, virgin olive oil on my face. I read somewhere that all the women with beautiful skin use pure virgin olive oil.
Anything that has the word virgin in it has to make your skin look great, right guys?
So these days I am either smelling like vinegar, or olive oil, or both depending on when you catch me at home. You know, just push a piece of Italian salami in my mouth and I am ready for the anti-pasta table.
And so far I can’t tell if it is helping, except to say it makes me want to buy perfect Italian bread and tear pieces off, rub them on my face and eat it until I pass out.
Last night I had a dream that me and this handsome Italian guy were frolicking on my bed, hitting each other with soft french bread loaves and having a grand time. Maybe the vinegar and oil is seeping deep into my brain and my son will come home from school one day to find me curled up in bed with 100 loaves of fresh, warm french bread.
Tonight I sat down and looked lovingly in that Godzilla mirror and my skin appeared somewhat better, but I am worried at this point that maybe I’ve just become addicted to thinking about french bread and don’t want to give up on this crazy facial ritual that even my son shakes his head at.
I tried to get him to try a cotton ball with the vinegar tonic on it, “Brian, I think this might clear up that one teeny, tiny zit you have developing on the back of your neck. Come over here!” He gave me that look that teenage boys can only give when they are sure their mother has gone quite mad. He then ran into his room, locking the door so fast that I think time may have stopped.
The cotton ball is now staring at me and I am half-way temped to dip it in olive oil and suck on it and pretend that I am having french bread.
But (sigh) there’s no red wine in the house to go with it.
Wait. I. haven’t. tried. red. wine. on. my. face.
Where are my car keys?
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